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Photo,  Saunders,  Buffalo,  i90S 


Donegal  Memories  and 
Other  Poems 

BY 

James  Nicoll  Johnston 


•Those  recollected  hours  that  have  the  charm 
OI  visionary  things,  those  lovely  forms 
And  sweet  sensations  that  throw  back  our  lite. 
And  almost  make  remotest  Infancy 
A  visible  scene,  on  which  the  sun  Is  shining." 


PRIVATELV    PRINTED 

THE   MATTHEWS-NORTHKUP    WORKS 

BUFFALO,    NEW  YORK 

MCMX 


GLEN  IHIS  PICTURES  BY  PERMISSION 
OF  HONORABLE  WILLIAM  PRYOR 
LETCHWORTH,  LL.  D.  UNLESS  OTHER- 
WISE ACKNOWLEDGED,  THE  OTHER 
PICTURES  ARE  FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS 
BYJOHN  A.  BLACK,M.  A.  (tHE  KNIGHT 
OF    blarney),    BUFFALO,    NEW    YORK 


>n'- 


Copyright,  1910,  by  James  Nicoll  Johnston 


In  Loving  Memory 

These  Poems  are  Inscribed 

TO  MY  Mother 

Jean  Nicoll  Johnston 


24913fi 


CONTENTS 

ABRAHAM   LINCOLN, 

THE   GUARD    ON   THE    RHINE, 

AN  ARTISTIC  ALCHEMIST, 

IN  VAIN,  O   MAN,  CONTENDING, 

THANKSGIVING    HYMN, 

CHRISTMAS, 

NEW  YEAR'S   DAY,  1909, 

A  FRIEND'S  ADVICE, 

GERRIT   SMITH, 

SAINT  AUGUSTINE, 

LARS   GUSTAVE   SELLSTEDT, 

WELTON   M.  MODISETTE, 

IMPROMPTUS, 

TO  ANY  ONE    INTENDING   TO   PUBLISH  A  BOOK, 

INSCRIPTION    ON   THE    FLY   LEAF    OF   MRS.  J.  D. 
L.'S   POETS  AND    POETRY  OF   BUFFALO, 

TO   MRS.  C.  B.  S., 

TO   MRS.  J.  J.  A., 

ON    RECEIVING   A   LETTER-BALANCE    FROM    MR. 
AND    MRS.  F.  M.  H., 

HALCYON. 

TO  J.  V.  W.  ANNAN, 

MATERIAL   PROSPERITY, 

AT   THE   GRAVE   OF   MARY  E.  LORD, 

ROBERT   KEATING, 

EICHE-RUHE, 

TO  A  VOYAGER  BOUND    FOR  THE   ORIENT, 

TO    RABBI    FALK    AND     MRS.    FALK     ON    THEIR 

SILVER    WEDDING   ANNIVERSARY, 
A  GOOD   MAN'S   BIRTHDAY, 
GLEN    IRIS   POEMS, 
GLEN   IRIS, 
A  MEMORY, 
THERE'S    A    BEAUTIFUL     SPOT     BY    THE     WILD 

GENESEE, 
REST, 

THE   HAPPY  VALLEY, 
A  PICTURE, 
TO   M.  F., 
TO  GLEN   IRIS, 
DONEGAL   MEMORIES, 
LONGINGS, 
MEMORIES, 
EXTRACT  FROM  AN  ADDRESS, 


Page 

11 

12,  13 

13 

14 

15 

16 

17 

■,  18 

19 

20 

21 

22 

25 

26 

26 

26 

27 

27 

27 

28 

29 

29 

30 

,31 

32 

,33 

34 

35, 

,36 

37 

38 

39 

-65 

41, 

42 

45, 

46 

49, 

50 

53, 

54 

57, 

58 

61 

62 

65 

67-] 

114 

71 

72, 

73 

74 

of  rhythmic  expression  that  was  born  in  him,  and  it  gave  us 
the  "  Donegal  Memories,"  which  have  sung  their  simple  sweet 
feeling  into  the  hearts  of  many  more  than  their  Irish  readers. 
If  I  care  a  little  more  for  the  elder  verse  of  the  eighteen-six- 
ties-and-seventies,  it  is  because  of  the  habit  of  a  long  affection, 
no  doubt,  and  not  many  will  assent  to  such  a  preference. 
The  poems  of  the  two  periods  are  interesting  in  their  differences, 
as  well  as  delightful  in  themselves,  and  they  gain  by  being 
bound  together. 

Another  Buffalo  poet  once  put  his  feeling  toward  and  his 
thought  of  the  writer  of  this  book  into  the  following  sonnet: 

"TO  AN   OLD  FRIEND" 

A  kindred  taste  in  books  —  the  better  kind, 
A  love  for  humor  —  of  an  honest  vein, 
A  turn  for  talk,  for  verses,  and  a  strain 
Of  Scottish  blood  ;    last  but  not  least  to  mind 
A  joy  in  vain  debate  ;    all  these  combined 
Have  made  us  young  together — spite  the  score 
Of  years  you  rank  me,  and  the  little  more 
Of  gray  above  a  brow  no  deeper  lined. 

But  to  keep  yoimg  together — how  solve  this  ? 
Who  reads  the  riddle  never  need  grow  old  ; 
To  leave  the  heart  unlocked,  that  naught  in  vain. 
So  it  be  worthy  —  yes,  though  it  be  pain  — 
Shall  seek  the  door  ;  old  friend,  I  cannot  miss 
The  simple  answer,  by  your  own  life  told  ! 

I  am  permitted  to  borrow  from  Robert  Cameron  Rogers 
this  fine  tribute  "To  an  Old  Friend,"  which  gives  adequate 
expression  to  what  I  would  put  into  words  of  my  own  if  I 
could. 

J.  N.  LARNED 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 

Lying  in  State  in  Buffalo,  April  27,  1865. 

Bear  him  to  his  Western  home, 

Whence  he  came  four  years  ago ; 
Not  beneath  some  Eastern  dome, 
But  where  Freedom's  airs  may  come. 
Where  the  prairie  grasses  grow, 
To  the  friends  who  loved  him  so. 

Take  him  to  his  quiet  rest ; 

Toll  the  bell  and  fire  the  gun ; 
He  who  served  his  country  best. 
He  whom  millions  loved  and  bless'd, 

Now  has  fame  immortal  won  ; 

Rack  of  brain  and  heart  is  done. 

Shed  thy  tears,  O,  April  rain  ! 
O'er  the  tomb  wherein  he  sleeps  ! 

Wash  away  the  bloody  stain ! 

Drape  the  skies  in  grief,  0,  rain ! 
Lo !  a  nation  with  thee  weeps. 
Grieving  o'er  her  martyred  slain. 

To  the  people  whence  he  came. 
Bear  him  gently  back  again. 

Greater  his  than  victor's  fame, — 

His  is  now  a  sainted  name ; 
Never  ruler  had  such  gain — 
Never  people  had  such  pain. 


Mr.  James  NicoU  Johnston's  poem  on  Lincoln,  printed  above,  was  published  at  the 
head  of  the  editorial  columns  of  the  Buffalo  Express,  April  27,  1865,  anonymously. 
It  was  afterwards  republished,  anonymously,  in  "  Poetical  Tributes  to  the  Memory  of 
Abraham  Lincoln,  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co."  The  author's  identity  was  established  by 
its  appearance  in  Mr.  Johnston's  *'  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Buffalo." 


[    11    ] 


THE    GUARD   ON   THE    RHINE 

Translated  from  the  German,  June,  1870. 

There  swells  a  cry  as  thunder-crash, 
As  clash  of  swords  and  breakers  dash — 
On  to  the  Rhine,  to  the  German  Rhine! 
Who  will  protect  the  river  line  ? 
Dear  Fatherland,  let  peace  be  thine ; 
Brave  hearts  and  true  defend  the  Rhine  ! 

To  millions  swiftly  came  the  cry. 
And  lightnings  flashed  from  every  eye ; 
Our  youth  so  good  and  brave  will  stand 
And  guard  thee — Holy  Border  Land! 
Dear  Fatherland,  let  peace  be  thine. 
Brave  hearts  and  true  defend  the  Rhine  ! 

And  though  my  heart  should  beat  no  more. 

No  foreign  foe  shall  hold  thy  shore, — 

Rich  as  in  water  is  thy  flood, 

Is  Germany  in  hero  blood. 

Dear  Fatherland,  let  peace  be  thine  ; 

Brave  hearts  and  true  defend  the  Rhine ! 

Up  looked  he  to  the  heaven's  blue, 
Where  hero-dead  our  actions  view  ; 
He  swore  and  proudly  sought  the  strife  — 
"The  Rhine  is  German  as  my  life." 
Dear  Fatherland,  let  peace  be  thine ; 
Brave  hearts  and  true  defend  the  Rhine  ! 


[   12   ] 


While  yet  one  drop  of  blood  throbs  warm, 
To  wield  the  sword  remains  one  arm, 
To  hold  the  rifle  yet  one  hand, 
No  foeman  steps  upon  thy  strand. 
Loved  Fatherland,  let  peace  be  thine  ; 
Brave  hearts  and  true  defend  the  Rhine ! 

The  oath  resounds,  the  billows  run ; 
Our  colors  flutter  in  the  sun ; 
On  to  the  Rhine,  to  the  German  Rhine ! 
We  will  protect  thee,  river  mine ! 
Dear  Fatherland,  let  peace  be  thine ; 
Brave  hearts  and  true  defend  the  Rhine ! 


AN   ARTISTIC  ALCHEMIST 

Inscription  to  M.  R.  T.,  in  her  copy  of  Donegal  Memories. 

The  emblem  of  Erin  so  vaunted 

Was  just  the  design  that  she  wanted; 

So  with  one  of  her  gifts  manifold. 
And  being  all  the  time  a  book-lover, 

She  changed  the  green  shamrocks  to  gold; 
You  can  see  them  outside  on  the  cover. 


[  13  ] 


IN   VAIN,  O   MAN,    CONTENDING 

From  the  German 

In  vain,  O  man,  contending. 

Thou  mak'st  but  care  and  pain  ; 
A  life  repose  intending 

Thou  never  canst  attain. 
Overtakes  the  king  and  peasant 

Alike,  death's  fearful  smart  ; 
Be  silent  for  the  present. 

And  patient,  O  my  heart ! 

Not  ever  bloom  the  roses, — 

A  storm  and  they  must  fall ; 
Yet  mother-earth  discloses 

A  grave  prepared  for  all. 
The  day  that  has  no  morrow — 

When  that  last  day  appears. 
Then  ended  is  all  sorrow 

And  wept  are  all  our  tears. 

From  woes  no  man  can  number 

We're  borne  at  last  to  rest ; 
Close-to,  in  endless  slumber, 

Are  weary  eyelids  pressed  ; 
Death's  arrow  is  unfailing 

To  quiet  every  smart ; 
A  few  more  days  of  ailing, — 

Be  patient,  O  my  heart ! 


[  14  ] 


THANKSGIVING    HYMN 

Beneficent  Father, 

Before  Thee  to-day, 
Together  we  gather, 

Our  homage  to  pay, 
For  bounties  that  flowed, 

The  goodness,  the  cheer — 
All  Thy  hands  have  bestowed 

Through  the  outgoing  year. 

The  fields  we  have  cultured, 

Thy  sunshine  and  rain 
Have  nourished  and  nurtured 

To  ripeness  again. 
No  blight  has  us  saddened. 

No  dark  angel's  wing  — 
Our  hearts  have  been  gladdened 

By  what  Thou  didst  bring. 

For  our  flocks  still  increasing. 

Our  harvest's  rich  store. 
Thy  kindness  unceasing 

To  us  evermore, — 
Our  land  blessed  of  heaven. 

With  rest  from  the  sword, — 
For  all  Thou  hast  given. 

We  thank  Thee,  O  Lord. 


[  IS  ] 


CHRISTMAS 

Snow,  wrap  the  earth  in  robes  of  white ; 

Ye  stars  heaven's  vault  adorning, 
Shed  o'er  the  world  a  brighter  light 

On  this  dear  Christmas  morning. 
Ye  lofty  bells,  your  anthems  play 

From  every  towering  steeple  ; 
Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  this  day, 

Have  come  to  all  the  people. 

From  eastern  lands  of  old  renown, 

By  western  prairies  swelling. 
In  many  an  overcrowded  town, 

In  lone  and  scattered  dwelling. 
Goes  up  the  glad  triumphant  strain 

To  him  who  ruleth  o'er  us,  — 
Men  giving  back  a  loud  refrain 

Unto  the  angels'  chorus. 

To  thee,  dear  Bethlehem,  to-day. 

Our  willing  hearts  are  turning. 
Yet  by  the  manger  still  we  stay, 

While  faith  and  love  are  burning. 
That  manger  is  a  sacred  shrine 

Where  pulse  and  heart  beat  faster ; 
Its  babe  is  now  our  King  divine. 

Redeemer,  Lord,  and  Master. 


[  16  ] 


NEW   YEAR'S    DAY,  1909 

The  sad  Old  Year  has  passed  away, 

And  the  glad  New  Year  is  here  to-day, — 

Come  with  the  lessons  we  soon  must  learn. 
Come  with  the  truths  we  would  fain  discern  : 

A  mission  for  all,  deeds  to  be  wrought ; 
Duties  that  cannot  be  sold  or  bought. 

The  time  has  gone  for  mere  speech  and  pen. 
The  Nation's  great  need  is  for  earnest  men. 

We  turn,  Old  Year,  our  questioning  thought, 
And  read  the  teachings  thy  changes  brought : 

Some  hearts  have  drunk  from  a  living  spring, 
And  life  with  them  was  a  gladsome  thing ; 

And  some  have  felt  the  keen  pangs  that  rise 
As  they  looked  in  vain  for  loving  eyes. 

Through  endless  strivings  of  hope  and  fear. 
We  watched  thy  passage,  thou  sad  Old  Year ! 

Counting  thy  days  we  turn  with  pride 
To  scan  the  page  of  thy  sunny  side ; 

Through  the  early  mists  we  felt  our  ways 
Into  the  light  of  thy  later  days  ;  — 

Harvests  gathered  of  untold  wealth. 
Sweet  summer  breezes,  bringing  us  health ; 

Commerce  speeding  her  deep-laden  fleets, 
The  hum  of  traffic  in  all  our  streets ; 

[  17  ] 


And  better  still  that  the  Nation's  thought 
Is  true  to  the  teachings  the  fathers  taught ; 

And  the  treasured  flame  of  Freedom's  fire, 
Burns  now  in  the  son  as  once  in  the  sire. 

O,  glad  New  Year!    we  longingly  look 
Into  thy  dim,  mysterious  book. 

Our  hopes  are  strong  as  with  eager  eyes 
We  would  read  the  Nation's  destinies ; 

For  promised  gifts  each  watcher  stands 
And  holds  to  thee  his  outstretched  hands. 

Bring  us  the  truth,  unheeding  the  cost, 
Though  all  the  baubles  of  life  be  lost. 

The  faith  and  patience  that  counts  no  price 
As  worthy  of  liberty's  sacrifice. 

O,  year  of  years,  in  every  land 

Earth's  mourning,  hapless  sufferers  stand. 

Looking  afar  with  straining  eyes 
To  hail  the  bow  in  the  western  skies. 

We  labor  and  pray  and  still  endure, — 
God's  time  seems  slow,  but  the  end  is  sure. 

Break  off,  O,  Year !    all  fetters  that  bind, 
Spread  the  knowledge  that  lifts  mankind. 

Bring  us  the  tidings  we  long  to  hear. 
And  be  all  thy  days  a  glad  New  Year. 


[  18  ] 


A  FRIEND'S  ADVICE 

Poor  foolish  one,  who  vainly  sits, 

Still  hatching  eggs  of  sorrow, 
Who  sees  the  fancies  of  to-day 

Become  great  facts  to-morrow, 
Why  grieve  ye  for  the  changing  heart  ? 

Or  mourn  for  friendship's  crosses  ? 
The  man  who  acts  the  wiser  part, 

Will  laugh  still  at  his  losses. 

Have  boon  companions  from  you  gone  ? 

You're  freer  from  temptation ; 
Has  lady-love  to  rival  flown  ? — 

A  blessed  dispensation. 
More  precious  friends  you  yet  shall  find, 

A  damsel  that  is  truer ; 
Pleasure  awaits  the  cheerful  mind, 

Success  the  faithful  wooer. 

Then  throw  aside  your  robes  of  grief, 

And  let  your  life  be  jolly; 
To  every  wrinkle  give  a  reef. 

To  fools  give  melancholy. 
Thank  Heaven  for  what  it  has  bestowed ; 

Cease,  cease,  this  useless  pining ! 
And  take  the  independent  road, 

Where  light  is  always  shining. 


[  19  1 


GERRIT   SMITH 

Sonnet  written  for  Mrs.  Louise  Willard  Miller. 

Few  were  the  fighters  when  our  hero  came 
And  bravely  led  the  hosts  in  freedom's  van  ; 
A  patriot  he,  who  feared  no  tyrant's  ban, 

Fought  a  good  fight  against  our  country's  shame, 

Nor  ever  flinched  for  hostile  hate  or  blame. 

With  lives  like  his  —  "  the  noble  men  who  can," 
We've  read  his  story  and  we  love  the  man ; 

Seek  the  immortals  and  you'll  find  his  name. 

You  of  his  line  have  other  work  to  do  ; 

Though  slavery's  dead,  freedom  is  far  away, 
The  weak  still  suffer  from  the  heartless  strong 
Now,  while  the  way  of  duty  you  pursue. 
Look  ever  upward  and  believing  pray 

For  right  triumphant  and  the  end  of  wrong. 


October  19,  1908. 


20    ] 


SAINT   AUGUSTINE 

I  silently  sit  by  the  Spanish  Fort, 

And  watch  the  ensign  fall ; 
The  white-sailed  boats  are  seeking  the  port, 

Or  lie  by  the  low  sea-wall. 

And  darkness  spreads  o'er  the  eastern  sky, 
Save  the  "  flash-light"  by  the  shore  ; 

I  hear  the  Matanzas  ebbing  by. 
And  the  ocean's  distant  roar. 

Stilled  is  the  beat  of  the  sea-bird's  wings. 
And  borne  on  the  evening  breeze 

There  comes  the  calm  that  the  twilight  brings 
From  gardens  of  tropical  trees. 

And  odors  of  sweetness  fill  the  air. 
As  the  shadows  fall  on  the  deep ; 

And  lost  are  time,  and  space,  and  care. 
And  whether  I  wake  or  sleep. 

For  thoughts  are  mine,  which  no  one  tells, — 
Of  what  life  has  brought  to  me ; 

They  came  from  the  old  cathedral  bells, 
And  are  gone  on  an  endless  sea. 


[  21 


LARS   GUSTAVE  SELLSTEDT 

On  his  Ninetieth  Birthday. 

At  four  score  years  most  men  retire, 

Their  after-days  show  oft  decline ; 

His  mind  still  glows  with  olden  fire, 

And  does  good  work  at  eighty-nine. 

One  thing  there  is  his  friends  now  want. 

That  Osier  see  him  and  recant. 

To-day  he's  four  score  years  and  ten  ; 

His  life  and  labors  we  all  know ; 
With  story,  brush,  and  vigorous  pen 
He's  added  fame  to  Buffalo. 

One  thing  there  is  his  friends  all  want, 
That  Osier  see  him  and  recant. 

Of  lives  like  his  have  poets  sung  — 

Whose  aims  to  noble  ideals  tend ; 

At  ninety  years  we  find  him  young. 

All  Buffalo  proclaims  him  friend. 

One  thing  there  is  these  friends  now  want. 
That  Osier  see  him  and  recant. 


X7^^ 


[   22   ] 


ALBRIGHT  ART  GALLERY 


[    23    ] 


WELTON    M.  MODISETTE 

No  narrow  creed  his  generous  soul  confined ; 
He  loved  his  Maker  and  the  works  He  planned, 
His  country,  and  his  duty's  high  command. 
The  themes  the  wise  in  ancient  records  find, 
The  joy-inspiring  touch  of  mind  with  mind. 
And  all  things  beautiful  on  sea  and  land. 
Teacher  of  truth  he  was,  convincing,  grand ; 
Then  God  so  willed  it  and  our  friend  grew  blind. 

No  weak  complainings  in  his  darkened  hours ; 
Dear  memories  lived,  and  friends  to  him  were  eyes ; 
Love,  music,  converse,  made  all  seasons  bright ; 
From  songs  of  birds  and  fragrance  of  sweet  flowers. 
In  thoughts  that  from  deep  introspection  rise, 
And  communings  with  God: — Lo,  there  was  light! 


[  25  ] 


IMPROMPTUS 

To  Hon.  W.  P.  Letchworth,  on  seeing  his  Book  on  tlie  Insane  frequently  quoted 
and  endorsed  in  a  Hungarian  book. 

You  have  an  appetite  for  facts, 

Chapters  and  tables  hard  to  frame ; 
Now,  in  a  Magyar  Book  of  Acts, 

The  author  glorifies  your  name. 

Soon  far  from  classic  Genesee, — 

In  Yeddo,  Pekin,  or  Bombay, 
When  savants  come  to  disagree, 

They'll  ask  —  "And  what  does  Letchworth  say?" 


TO    ANY    ONE    INTENDING   TO  PUBLISH 
A    BOOK 

Have  you  written  a  book  and  wish  to  print  it ; 

See  there's  money  on  hand  and  do  not  stint  it ; 
Seek  M-N  Works — with  good  men  to  overlook. 

And  then  you'll  be  sure  of  a  perfect  book. 
Their  part  is  what  arts  and  crafts  can  do — 

Is  the  book  a  success  ?      That  depends  on  you. 

INSCRIPTION  ON  THE  FLY  LEAF  OF  MRS.  J.  D.  L.'S 
POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO. 

Our  subjects  are  familiar  things. 

Fancies  and  thoughts  that  come  and  go ; 

Each  modest  muse  may  stretch  her  wings, 
But  finds  her  rest  in  Buffalo. 

We  cultivate  a  fair  estate, — 

No  mighty  gift  of  genius  ours ; 
Others  may  boast  possessions  great, — 

We  have  a  garden  of  sweet  flowers. 


[  26  ] 


TO   MRS.  C.  B.  S. 

With  a  copy  of  Samuel  Lover's  Anthology  of  Irish  Verse. 

A  birthday  and  an  uplift ; 

How  fast  time  rushes  ! 
Pray,  take  this  book,  a  gift 
With  heart-warm  wishes. 
Old  songs  of  Erin  lie  beneath  the  cover. 
By  a  Lover-Bard  and  for  a  music  lover. 

TO    MRS.  J.  J.  A. 

With  a  small  bill  to  buy  a  Christmas  present  for  her  little  daughter. 

I  have  a  fancy 

It  would  be  pleasant 

To  send  a  present 
To  little  Nancy. 

And  so  to  end  it, 

I  ask  her  mother 

To  take  the  bother ; 
Here's  money,  spend  it. 

Buy  a  full  moon. 

Or  whatever  you  like ; 

A  Raphael,  Van  Dyke, 
Or  a  silver  spoon. 

ON    RECEIVING    A    LETTER-BALANCE   FROM 
MR.    AND    MRS.  F.  M.  H. 

Dear  friends,  your  gift  to  me  to-day 

Will  move  me  to  live  better ; 
Before,  my  words  I  tried  to  weigh ; 

Now,  I  will  weigh  each  letter. 

[  27  ] 


HALCYON 

The  home  at  Queenstown,  Canada,  of  Mr.  Richard  K.  Noye. 

Great  locust  trees  that  screen  from  passers  by ; 

An  orchard  garden  where  the  robins  run ; 

Green  bowers  of  rest  secluded  from  the  sun ; 
Two  stately  cedars  grateful  to  the  eye ; 
Above,  in  glory  outlined  'gainst  the  sky, 

The  monument  a  patriot-hero  won  — 

Beyond,  wide  landscapes  fair  as  Avallon, — 
The  mighty  river,  silent,  flowing  nigh. 
How  good  to  live  and  muse  in  such  a  spot ; 

To  watch  great  Nature  in  her  various  moods. 
And  meditate  on  life  and  summers  gone, 
Recalling  loves  pure,  sacred,  unforgot — 

Until  the  twilight  rests  upon  the  woods ; 

Then,  sup  with  friends  and  dream  in  Halcyon. 

Queenstown,  Canada,  August  5,  1905. 


[  28  ] 


To   J.  V.  W.  ANNAN 

On  his  Ninety-fourth  Birthday. 

Honored  friend,  now  ninety-four, 

On  this  eventful  day 
What  can  we  wish  you  more 

Than  the  blessings  you  have  had  ; 
What  new  words  can  we  say  ? 

You've  had  friends,  and  faith  and  peace, 
The  grace  to  make  hearts  glad, 

Home  love  in  richest  store, — 
Heaven  waiting  earth's  release ; 

What  can  we  wish  you  more  ? 

MATERIAL   PROSPERITY 

Written  for  M.  A. 

Beyond  the  Atlantic's  western  shore. 
Where  tireless  force  forever  drives  — 
Till  all  the  ideals  of  most  lives 

Are  power  and  profit  evermore ; 

With  knowledge  vast,  unknown  before, 
Science  sees  far  and  commerce  thrives, 
Powers  combine; — while  fashion  strives. 

Are  these  what  seers  have  dreamed  of  yore  ? 

We  have  the  cure  for  many  ills. 
And  train  all  nature  to  our  aid ; 
Small  gain  if  we  be  unaware 

Of  visions  seen  on  Eastern  hills, 

Warnings  to  make  the  heart  afraid ; 
And  heavenly  voices  in  the  air. 


[  29] 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  MARY  E.  LORD 

Queen  City  of  the  western  lake, 

By  Erie's  pleasant  waters, 
You  mourn  for  her  whom  death  did  take  — 

The  kindliest  of  your  daughters. 

A  child  of  yours,  she  loved  you  well. 
She  shared  your  growth  and  glory ; 

Her  name  shall  in  your  annals  dwell, 
Her  life  will  be  your  story. 

The  joys  of  nature  were  her  own, 

In  country  or  in  city ; 
Of  all  God's  creatures,  she  found  none 

Too  low  for  love  and  pity. 

Into  her  hospitable  home 

Came  many  a  woodland  stranger, 

For  there  they  fearlessly  might  roam, 
Secure  from  foe  and  danger. 

When  hearts  were  cold  and  law  was  dead, 

She  saw  the  horse  o'erloaded. 
The  wound  unhealed,  the  kine  unfed. 

The  beast  to  th'  shambles  goaded, — 

Her  woman's  soul,  with  holy  zeal, 
Passed  not  the  wrong  unheeded ; 

She  taught  a  city's  heart  to  feel, 
And  conquered  where  she  pleaded. 


[  30  ] 


The  true,  the  tender  one  is  gone, 
The  faithful  heart  is  sleeping ; 

Home  of  our  dead,  dear  Forest  Lawn, 
We  leave  her  in  your  keeping. 

O,  women  cruel,  cold,  and  hard. 
Lives  given  to  senseless  fashion. 

Learn  by  the  grave  of  Mary  Lord 
The  Gospel  of  Compassion. 


[  31  ] 


ROBERT  KEATING 

On  his  Seventy-fifth  Birthday. 

Let  friends  all  rejoice 

To-night,  at  this  meeting  ; 
And  proclaim  with  one  voice 

Our  faith  in  R.  Keating  ;  — 
He  stands  for  fair  play, 

Religion  and  truth, 
As  zealous  to-day 

As  in  years  of  his  youth. 

He  does  not  pitch  ball ; 

At  golf  a  poor  player ; 
Never  saw   Donegal : 

For  new  cults  doesn't  care ;  — 
But  as  a  mirth-raiser 

He  holds  the  front  rank  ; 
And  as  an  appraiser — 

Enquire  at  the  bank. 

The  things  he  don't  want 

Are  always  too  dear; 
Humbugs  look  askant 

When  Robert  is  near ; 
For  the  friends  he  regards. 

His  friendship  is  stable, 
And  pilgrims  and  bards 

Find  a  seat  at  his  table. 


[  32  ] 


He  has  won  a  good  name 

By  actions  that  bless ; 
The  bauble  of  fame 

Never  caused  him  distress.; 
A  toast  to  his  birthday, 

We  wish  him  good  cheer; 
May  Peace  and  Love  stay 

With  him,  many  a  year. 


[  33  ] 


EICHE-RUHE 

To  my  friend,  J.  U.  W.,  Pasadena,  Cal. 

Glad  summer  days  in  the  shade  of  the  oak, 

By  the  dearest  of  homes  and  friendships  true ; 
To-night  from  the  past  I  old  pictures  evoke, 
When  thinking  of  you. 

In  those  golden  days  when  cherries  were  red. 
And  in  bloom  were  flowers  of  many  a  hue ; 
Their  beauty  brightened  each  garden  bed, 
When  sitting  by  you. 

Those  peaceful  hours  I  shared  your  hopes  — 

Father  and  mother  and  darling  boys ; 
'Tis  well  then  unread  were  the  horoscopes 
Now  marring  our  joys. 

You  found  a  home  by  the  calm  sea  coast, 
In  a  sunshine  land  with  prospects  new  ; 
Thought  followed  you  still  —  the  past  a  ghost — 
And  away  from  you. 

A  house  of  peace  beyond  peaks  of  snow  ; 

Below,  the  arroyo.      How  grand. the  view  ! 
There  sleep  the  loved  of  the  long  ago ; 
And  alone  are  you. 

Here  a  garden  of  beauty  we  oft  recall ; 

There  is  one  as  fair  you  daily  see ; 
In  the  Garden  of  God  transcending  all  — 
The  meeting  will  be. 


[  34  ] 


TO    A   VOYAGER    BOUND    FOR   THE   ORIENT 

While  the  steamship  is  toiling  and  rolling, 

As  you  skirt  the  African  shore, 
The  thought  that  is  most  consoling 

Is,  when  your  long  journey  is  o'er, 
You  are  not  on  the  wild  waves  bowling. 

And  will  be  thankful  as  never  before. 
That  you  hear  the  church  bells  tolling, 

As  you  sit  by  your  own  back  door. 

'Twixt  the  garden  grounds  and  the  distance, 

There,  trees  of  rare  beauty  grow ; 
They  gladden  your  whole  existence 

In  the  seasons  of  sunshine  or  snow. 
Let  the  lonely  palm  be  forgotten. 

And  the  weary  sands  you  explore. 
Let  the  garden  and  flowers  be  oft  thought  on. 

That  you  see  from  your  own  back  door. 

O  !  why  did  a  restless  yearning 

Make  you  sail  the  salt  seas  o'er ; 
Now,  tired  of  the  billows  surging. 

And  of  people  who  only  bore, — 
Seek  a  calm  that  is  full  of  blisses, 

Seek  a  peace  that  is  ever  in  store  — 
One,  that  she  who  wanders  misses, 

And  'tis  found  at  your  own  back  door. 


[  35  ] 


Come  back  to  home  and  to  neighbors, 

To  those  who  love  you  the  best ; 
They  will  hail  you  with  harps  and  tabors, 

When  you  return  to  the  West. 
And  the  flowers  and  the  birds  will  greet  you. 

And  the  sunsets  that  you  adore ; 
Dear  friends  will  joyfully  meet  you 

As  you  sit  by  your  own  back  door. 


tF?¥ 


<o^ 


[  36.] 


TO  RABBI    FALK    AND  MRS.  FALK  ON   THEIR 
SILVER   WEDDING   ANNIVERSARY 

The  day  that  made  two  hearts  unite, 

Has  had  its  annual  round  ; 
And  every  year  brings  fresh  delight, 

Where  love  and  faith  are  crowned  — 

'Till  now  at  length  the  march  of  life. 
Through  hopes,  griefs,  joys,  and  fears. 

Have  brought  you,  happy  man  and  wife, 
To  five  and  twenty  years. 

Your  children  blossomed  by  your  hearth, 
And  peace  has  blessed  your  home ; 

While  from  the  distant  parts  of  earth 
To  you  have  friendships  come. 

The  truths  the  good  and  wise  have  taught 

Have  unto  you  been  dear ; 
No  promised  land  afar  you  sought  — 

For  you  have  found  it  here. 

True  hospitality  of  mind 

Has  opened  every  place ; 
The  brotherhood  the  generous  find 

Barred  not  by  creed  or  race. 

The  kindly  thought,  the  hand  to  reach 
Where  hopes  and  friends  are  few ; 

The  charity  all  gospels  teach. 
Has  found  a  voice  in  you. 


[  37  ] 


A    GOOD  MAN'S    BIRTHDAY 

J.  D.  L. 

He  works  for  others, — 

Happy  task ! 
All  men  his  brothers ; 

Do  not  ask 
His  age  to-day, 
But  only  say 
It  matters  not. 
The  good  he  sought, 
Great  things  he  wrought  — 
Results  that  stay ; 
Love  lit  his  way — 
A  blessed  lot. 

The  love  that  shone 
Will  light  him  on  ; 
Small  change  for  him 
When  eyes  grow  dim 
And  birthdays  cease ; 
An  angel's  call 
Will  softly  fall,— 
Then  joy  and  peace 
Where  love  is  all. 


[  38  ] 


GLEN  IRIS  POEMS 


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[  40  ] 


GLEN  IRIS,  the  home  of  Hon.  William 
Pryor  Letchworth,  LL.  D.,  is  in  Wyoming 
County,  New  York,  on  the  west  bank  of  the 
Genesee  River  and  overlooking  the  Middle 
Fall.  Here,  the  owner,  —  when  not  absent  on 
philanthropic  work, — has  resided  for  over  half 
a  century ;  from  time  to  time  adding  to  his 
property,  improving  and  beautifying  it,  until 
landscape  art,  added  to  nature's  bounty,  has 
made  it  the  delight  of  all  lovers  of  natural 
scenery. 

Within  the  estate  are  the  Upper,  Middle,  and 
Lower  Falls  of  the  Genesee  River,  and  several 
fine  cascades.  The  river  bank  and  the  heights 
are  covered  with  a  rare  variety  of  trees,  shrubs, 
plants,  and  flowers,  and  on  the  well-tilled  farms 
are  orchards,  wheat  fields,  meadows,  and  rich 
pasture  land. 

The  geologist,botanist,  and  ornithologist  have 
here  rich  fields  in  which  to  make  their  investi- 
gations. Artists  find  pictures  already  made 
for  them  to  copy,  and  poets  inspiration  for 
their  verse.  There  is  no  other  place  in  this 
country,  known  to  me,  about  which  so  many 
poems  have  been  written.  These,  finely  illus- 
trated, are  printed  in  an  artistic  volume, 
"Voices  of  the  Glen."  The  Indian  Council 
House,  formerly  in  Canadea,  Allegany  County, 
was  moved  to  Glen  Iris  and  here  the  Last 
Indian  Council  on  the  Genesee  was  held  in 
October,  1872.  Near  by  is  the  grave  of  Mary 
Jemison,  the  famous  white  captive,  and  her 
log  cabin.  Other  objects  of  interest  are  found 
in  a  well-arranged  museum. 

[  41  ] 


This  wonderful  estate  of  one  thousand  acres 
was  deeded  by  Mr.  Letchworth  to  the  State  of 
New  York,  December  31,  1906,  to  be  preserved 
forever  as  a  "Public  Park  and  Reservation." 
Its  land  and  water,  the  latter  "The  Soul  of  the 
Landscape,"  will  be  under  the  protection  and 
care  of  The  American  Scenic  and  Historic 
Preservation  Society,  which  insures  for  posterity 
the  careful  preservation  of  this  magnificent 
property. 


[  42  ] 


[  44  ] 


A  MEMORY 

Bright  summer  dream  of  white  cascade, 

Of  lake,  and  wood,  and  river. 
The  vision  from  the  eye  may  fade, 
The  heart  keeps  it  forever. 
There  beauty  dwells 
In  rarest  dells, — 
There  every  leaf  rejoices ; 
By  cliff  and  steep, 
By  crag  and  deep. 
You  hear  their  pleasant  voices. 

From  forest  flower  and  meadow  bloom, 

(T 

The  soft  wind,  passing  over. 
Brings  the  wild  roses'  fresh  perfume. 
The  sweet  breath  of  the  clover; 

And  odors  rare 

Pulse  through  the  air, 
In  waves  of  pleasure  flowing. 

We  dream  away 

The  passing  day. 
Regardless  of  its  going. 

On  leafy  boughs  the  sunlight  glows, 

The  skies  are  blue  above  us, 
The  happy  laugh  that  comes  and  goes 
Is  from  the  friends  who  love  us. 

O !    bliss  combined 

Of  sense  and  mind, 
Rare  boon  to  mortals  given. 

Before  our  eyes 

Is  Paradise, 
Above  the  blue  is  heaven. 


[  45  ] 


Take,  Memory,  to  thy  choicest  shrine, 

And  guard  as  sacred  treasure. 
The  hours  of  ecstasy  divine. 
The  days  of  untold  pleasure. 

Though  many  a  scene 

May  come  between, 
In  way  of  future  duty, 

We  still  shall  deem 

Our  summer  dream. 
As  peerless  in  its  beauty. 


[  46  ] 


[  48  ] 


THERE'S    A    BEAUTIFUL   SPOT   BY   THE   WILD 
GENESEE 

There's  a  beautiful  spot  by  the  wild  Genesee, 

Where  blend  the  sublime  and  romantic ; 
O!    there  is  not  a  scene  so  lovely,  I  ween. 

From  the  Oregon  to  the  Atlantic. 
Come,  thou  sprite  of  the  deep,  where  the  white  waters  leap. 

Whose  office  to  aid  and  inspire  is. 
That  we  picture  the  green,  the  shadow  and  sheen, 

Of  the  landscape  surrounding  Glen  Iris ; 

Show  the  fields  on  the  uplands  all  golden  with  grain, 

The  orchards  with  fruits  overladen ; 
The  green  forest  trees  as  they  sway  in  the  breeze — 

Which  is  pure  as  the  incense  of  Eden, — 
And  the  river  below,  passing  on  in  its  flow. 

Now  calm  as  the  sunlight  that  flushes. 
Now  into  the  verge  of  the  fathomless  gorge, 

A  silvery  torrent,  it  rushes : 

Here  the  cliflfs'  dizzy  heights  in  their  fearfulness  hang, 

Where  the  birds  in  their  aeries  are  dwelling. 
There  down  the  abyss  the  weird  waters  hiss. 

Or  over  the  ledges  are  swelling ; 
And  the  caverns  yawn  wide  on  the  precipice  side. 

Where  never  a  sunbeam  is  slanted ; 
O!    we  gaze  upon  all,  river,  landscape,  and  fall, 

Till  the  heart  and  the  eye  are  enchanted. 


[  49  ] 


The  spell  must  be  broken;    dear  valley,  farewell. 

Farewell,  too,  thou  wild-flowing  river. 
But  a  life-happy  thought  of  the  joys  by  thee  brought, 

Will  be  a  glad  presence  forever. 
And  should  the  days  come,  ere  journeying  home, 

When  the  heart's  wish  from  care  to  retire  is, 
Heaven  send  it  may  be  by  the  dear  Genesee, 

And  the  waters  and  woods  of  Glen  Iris. 


[  50  ] 


[  52  ] 


REST 

Nature  rewards  a  friendly  eye  — 
Reveals  herself  to  sympathy, 
But  coldly  meets  the  passer-by. 

And  he  who'd  win  her  peerless  grace, 
Or  scan  the  fairness  of  her  face, 
Must  seek  her  in  her  dwelling-place. 

The  rifted  clouds  are  snowy-fleeced. 
The  gorgeous  sun  ascends  the  east — 
A  fiery-vestured  Orient  priest. 

The  pine-tops  glisten  in  his  glow, 

The  brooks  are  burnished  in  their  flow, 

A  brightness  rests  on  all  below : 

On  leaf-roofed  nook  and  wooded  ridge. 
On  cataract  and  lofty  bridge, 
Down  to  the  kindly  water's  edge; 

Away  from  selfish,  narrow  schemes, 
Where  cheerful  sunshine  ever  beams, 
In  hallowed  rest  my  spirit  dreams. 

From  human  strife  and  wordy  brawls, 
I  list  to  Nature's  pleasant  calls. 
And  drink  the  joy  of  waterfalls. 

A  halo  rests  on  rock  and  tree, 
A  glory  flits  across  the  lea  — 
God's  work  in  beauty  robed,  I  see ; 


[  53  ] 


While  upward  mounts  the  smoking  spray, 
Soft  airs  about  my  temples  play, 
And  breezes  kiss  the  heat  away. 

Beyond  the  river's  graceful  leap. 
Where  curving  segments  seek  the  deep, 
The  shining  waters  downward  creep. 

The  sky  bends  o'er  us  crystal  clear. 
No  tokened  wraith  of  storm  is  near, 
And  yet  God's  covenant  is  here ! 

The  earth  is  full  of  symphonies  — 
Leaf-rustles  and  the  hum  of  bees. 
And  sounds  like  roar  of  distant  seas. 

Love's  curtain  shuts  the  past,  so  grim ; 
No  future  cometh  dark  or  dim  — 
In  present  bliss  the  senses  swim. 

Calm's  finger  resteth  on  the  air, 
Peace  dwelleth  on  the  waters  there. 
And  rest  abideth  everywhere. 


[  54  ] 


[  56  ] 


THE    HAPPY    VALLEY 

I 
The  shady  woods  of  Wyoming  are  pleasant  as  of  old, 
The  distant  fields  of  Livingston  are  clothed  in  green  and  gold, 
The  orchard  fruit  is  hanging  low  on  many  a  burdened  tree, 
And    through    its   rock-bound    battlements    flows    down    the 

Genesee ; 
While  above  the  roar  of  waters,  and  beneath  the  summer  skies, 
In  all  its  peerless  beauty  there  the  happy  valley  lies ! 

II 

White  clouds  of  incense  slowly  rise  above  the  sparkling  fall. 
The  lovely  Iris  o'er  it  rests  —  a  gorgeous  coronal; 
And  no  sound  of  weary  clamor,  of  workshop  or  of  forge. 
Breaks  the  murmur  of  the  wild  cascade  that  flashes  down  the 

gorge ; 
O,  our  hearts  forget  their  sorrow,  as  we  feast  our  eager  eyes 
Where  below  in  all  its  beauty  there  the  happy  valley  lies. 

Ill 

The  calmness  of  the  lotus-land  is  round  us  everywhere. 
There's  music  in  the  waterfall,  there's  gladness  in  the  air ; 
We  sit  beneath  the  shadows  now,  and  watch  the  drowsy  mill. 
Or  hark  the  wild  kingfisher's  cry,  the  crow's  caw  on  the  hill ; 
There  the  beech  and  stately  fir-tree  in  crowning  glory  rise, 
And  below  in  peerless  beauty  still  the  happy  valley  lies. 


[  57  ] 


IV 

O,  fairest  of  all  rivers,  how  often  to  our  thought, 
In  the  city's  heated  tumult,  hast  thou  refreshing  brought, 
Beyond  the  storied  waters  —  the  Avon  and  the  Rhine — 
While  our  hearts  have  leaped  exultingly,  as  thrilled  by  olden 

wine; 
Again  we  view  thy  age-worn  cliffs,  rich  with  the  sunset-dyes. 
And  still  in  peerless  beauty  there  the  happy  valley  lies. 


Ye  woods  and  fields,  be  ever  glad  in  sunshine  and  in  snow. 
Bend  o'er  the  deep  in  loveliness,  thou  many-tinted  bow ; 
Flow  on,  fair  fiver,  in  thy  course,  and  carry  joy  abroad ; 
Sweet  valley,  from  thy  bosom  send  thanksgivings  up  to  God ; 
Look  down  in  loving-kindness  still,  ye  clear,  benignant  skies. 
And  angels  guard  the  sacred  spot  where  dear  Glen  Iris  lies ! 


[  58  ] 


[  60  ] 


A  PICTURE 

A  peaceful  glen  shut  in  by  wooded  heights ; 

A  river  rushing  through  its  rock-cut  walls ; 
Bright  summer  days  and  moon-illumined  nights ; 

The  sweeping  solemn  surge  of  waterfalls. 

Cloud-shadows  flitting  over  distant  glades ; 

Trees  many-hued,  a  hundred  cool  retreats; 
Brooks  flashing  downward  into  white  cascades  ; 

Light  evening  zephyrs  fresh  with  forest  sweets. 

A  tree-encircled  lawn  above  a  dell ; 

An  orchard  slope,  rare  tufts  of  fragrant  flowers ; 
A  happy  home  where  love  and  duty  dwell, 

And  joy  prevails  through  all  the  changing  hours. 


[  61  ] 


TO    M.  F. 

At  Glen  Iris,  October,  1899. 

Above,  the  stately  pines  parade, 

The  sumachs  burn  below ; 
The  river  and  the  glad  cascade 

Make  music  as  they  flow. 

Bright  colors  are  on  vine  and  tree, 

With  Indian  summer  haze, 
And  happy  thoughts  come  back  to  me 

Of  joyous  autumn  days, — 

When  loving  hearts  were  in  the  "Glen"- 

Old  friends  forever  dear ; 
O !    would  that  they  who  met  me  then, 

Were  now  with  Mary  here. 

Ye  spirits  of  this  vale  of  rest — 

The  gifted  and  the  true, 
Welcome  to-day  a  stranger  guest, 

For  she  is  kin  to  you. 


tKl 


C-^\\//W 


[  62  ] 


[  64  ] 


TO  GLEN  IRIS 

The  home  at  Portage,  N.  Y.,  of  the  Honorable  William  Pryor  Letchworth, 
LL.  D.,  the  widely  known  Author  and  Philanthropist. 

For  all  the  magic  by  thy  master  wrought, 

In  working  out  on  thee  this  bounteous  scheme, 
And  making  thee  an  artist-poet's  dream, — 

For  friendship's  sweet  repose,  exalted  thought, 

And  generous  welcome,  ever  unforgot, 

Thy  summer  woods,  the  moonlight  on  the  stream, 
With  all  the  memories  that  rise  supreme, — 

Dear  Glen,  for  these  alone  I  love  thee  not. 

Thy  master's  weary  years  of  ceaseless  care 
To  aid  the  sick,  the  hapless  one  to  seek, — 
His  voice  of  mercy  pleading  for  the  weak, — 

His  word  of  hope  to  brighten  dark  despair, — 

His  potent  message  helpful  everywhere, — 

For  these  I  love  thee  most  and  these  forever  speak. 


[  65  ] 


DONEGAL   MEMORIES 


i 

1 

1 

3-^ 

i 

1 

* 

i; 

^^^               -r-jg^^^ 

0 

~.-^-''  — 

[  69  ] 


LONGINGS 

I  am  weary  of  the  summer  heat, 

Of  looking  out  on  the  city  street  — 

Of  the  sad,  worn  looks  of  the  people  I  meet, 

And  I  long  for  the  ocean's  roar ; 
For  the  salt  sea  air  and  to  wander  away 
O'er  the  heathery  heights  of  Sheep  Haven  Bay, 

And  the  fields  of  Cashelmore. 

I  long  to  stand  where  the  sea-birds  call. 
By  Horn  Head's  steep  and  rocky  wall. 
And  watch  the  great  waves  break  and  fall ; 

For  there's  life  on  the  hills  and  life  by  the  sea, 
And  voices  forever  are  calling  to  me 
From  the  wilds  of  Donegal ! 


[  71  ] 


MEMORIES 

Land  of  rare  beauties,  old  land  of  Tyrconnel, 
Through  all  the  years  gone  fond  memories  stay ; 

Where  once  ruled  the  brave  Sweeney,  the  valiant  O'Donnell — 
Dear  land  of  my  childhood,  I  see  you  to-day. 

Salt  waters  still  lave  the  shores  of  Lough  Swilly  ; 

Tides  ebb  and  flow  in  great  Sheep  Haven  Bay, 
Green  vales,  and  dark  uplands,  heathclad  and  hilly. 

You  stand  now  before  me,  I  see  you  to-day. 

On  the  strand  of  Tramore  I've  watched  the  waves  speeding; 

O'er  the  bent-sprinkled  sand  hills  did  joyously  stray ; 
Above  their  deep  burrows  the  rabbits  were  feeding ; 

Is  Tolly  hill  green  in  the  winter  to-day  ? 

When  north  winds  were  fierce  and  billows  were  soaring, 
O'er  Horn  Head's  sharp  crags  was  a  wondrous  display  — 

McSweeney's  Gun  booming,  far  heard  was  its  roaring ; 
Now  rare  is  its  thunder,  low  booms  it  to-day. 

The  leas  and  the  daisies,  the  sweet  hawthorn  hedges 
With  violet  and  primrose  to  brighten  the  way ; 

Some  close  by  the  roadside,  some  up  the  steep  ledges — 
In  past  years  they  blossomed,  I  see  them  to-day. 

The  mist  in  the  morning  up  Muckish  was  creeping ; 

The  mill  on  the  Cloon  partly  hid  by  the  spray ; 
Upon  the  swift  mill-wheel  white  waters  were  leaping ; 

I  watched  them  with  wonder  and  see  them  to-day. 


[  72  ] 


The  spry  Irish  boys  and  the  girls  at  the  dances ; 

The  fairs  and  the  frolics,  lives  blithesome  and  gay ; 
The  weddings  and  convoys,  life's  changes  and  chances 

Old  joys  and  old  sorrows  are  with  me  to-day  ; 

Again  by  the  turf  fire  I  hear  the  wheels  whirring ; 

The  spinners'  light  lilt,  or  the  singers'  sweet  lay ; 
Thoughts  of  my  neighbors  my  heart  deep  are  stirring - 

Lost  forms  and  lost  faces  are  with  me  to-day.. 


[  73  ] 


EXTRACT  FROM  AN  ADDRESS 

Perchance  some  one  may  turn  his  thoughts  to-night 
To  that  dear  land  where  first  he  saw  the  light ; 
Again  he  hears  the  cuckoo's  distant  cry, 
The  hidden  lark's  sweet  music  in  the  sky, 
In  fields  of  grain  the  lusty  corncrake's  calls, 
From  hazelwoods  the  linnet's  clear  note  falls. 
How  fair  the  lea  with  daisies  and  each  edge 
Rich  with  fragrance  by  the  hawthorn  hedge ; 
Who  breathing  once  their  odours  can  forget 
The  primrose,  wall-flower,  and  blue  violet, 
Or  meadow-sweet,  or  woodbine  rich  perfume — 
Bright  yellow  gorse  and  heather's  purple  bloom. 
When  hope  was  high  and  life  with  us  was  young. 
We  then  heard  songs  that  have  not  since  been  sung ; 
For  Nature  then  was  prodigal,  and  we 
Saw  on  her  face  what  we  no  more  can  see. 


[  74  ] 


[  76  ] 


GARTAN 

The  exile  from  Tyrconnel  land, 
Takes  with  him  over  the  sea, 
Visions  of  beauty  of  ocean  and  strand, 
Of  lough  and  river  and  lea ;  — 

But  none  moves  his  heart  with  a  tenderer  thrill 
Than  a  spot  near  Gartan  glen  and  the  hill 
Where  was  born  the  great  Saint  Columbkille. 

Rugged  and  grand  is  the  mountain  view. 

Green  the  turf  by  valley  and  lake. 
Where  the  wonderful  boy  in  wisdom  grew, 
Then  left  them  for  Christ's  dear  sake ; 
He  made  of  lona  a  sanctified  site. 
He  planted  the  cross  on  lowland  and  height, 
And  to  Gael  and  Briton  gave  gospel  light. 

Centuries  many,  since,  have  gone, 
Yet  his  name  it  faileth  not ;  — 
It  is  honored  in  every  clime  and  zone 
Where  Christian  truth  is  taught; 

And  pilgrims  from  far  are  journeying  still 
To  that  sacred  spot  near  lake  and  hill — 
Where  was  born  the  great  Saint  Columbkille. 


[  m  ] 


CREESLOUGH    FAIR 

If  you  have  never  been  to  a  Creeslough  Fair, 
Nor  had  a  look  at  the  doings  there, 
In  the  olden  time — Lammas  or  May — 
You  have  missed  a  rousing  holiday. 
'Tis  a  pleasant  task  once  more  to  recall 
The  buying  and  selling  by  Hasting's  Wall ; 
Where  to  cheer  the  heart  and  banish  care. 
Crowds  gathered  from  far  to  the  Creeslough  Fair 

They  came  from  Fanad,  Glen  and  Castle  Doe; 
From  Cloughaneely  and  around  Myroe; 
From  Ramelton  and  all  along  the  Lennon, 
Letterkenny,  Milford,  and  Kilmacrenan  ; 
On  horse,  on  foot,  on  loaded  cart, 
From  Dunfanaghy,  Fougher,  Derryart; 
By  the  side  of  Muckish,  past  Crinesmair ;  — 
They  traveled  in  groups  to  the  Creeslough  Fair. 

Sturdy  farmers,  children  from  school ; 
Housewives  bringing  spun  lint  and  wool ; 
Young  men  and  the  girls  they  most  did  prize, 
With  a  wealth  of  hair  and  dangerous  eyes  — 
Black,  blue,  or  brown — there  was  always  peril 
In  going  to  a  fair  with  a  Donegal  girl. 
For  full  many  a  match  came  unaware 
And  two  hearts  made  one  at  a  Creeslough  Fair. 


[  78  ] 


r 


[  79  ] 


There  were  donkeys,  horses,  foals  and  mares. 
Cows,  heifers  and  calves,  bullocks  in  pairs ; 
Sharp  drovers,  tinkers,  and  keen  farmer  boys 
Buying  and  selling  with  hand-clap  and  noise;  — 
The  seller  extolling  the  best  that  he  could 
The  beast  that  the  buyer  pronounced  no  goodj 
As  he  looked  in  its  mouth  with  a  nonchalant  air. 
But  at  last  closed  the  deal  at  the  Creeslough  Fair. 

There  was  the  man  who  auctioned  goods  down. 
Who  began  at  a  guinea  and  dropped  to  a  crown ; 
Then  seeing  the  buyers  to  bid  were  unwilling, 
Let  the  bargain  go  at  last  for  a  shilling. 
There  were  hawkers  with  much  that  a  housewife  needs  — 
Cutlery,  spools,  pins,  needles,  and  beads; 
Some  spent  all  the  money  they  had  to  spare. 
Buying  odds  and  ends  at  the  Creeslough  Fair. 

Others,  whose  minds  did  on  booklore  dwell. 

Could  find  in  the  stalls  what  suited  them  well ; 

Seven  Champions,  Shiel's  Shamrock,  volumes  of  song, 

Grim  tales  of  murder,  old  fights  that  went  wrong ; 

While  the  ballad  singers  would  solemn  relate 

A  shipwreck  at  sea,  or  a  false  lover's  fate, 

Erin's  past,  her  hope  and  her  despair  — 

And  the  songs  reached  the  hills  from  the  Creeslough  Fair. 


[  81  ] 


When  the  buying  and  selling  were  over  and  done, 
The  time  then  arrived  for  the  frolic  and  fun ; 
In  the  inns  for  refreshment  luck-money  was  paid, 
Old  friendships  renewed  and  new  ones  were  made ; 
Near  the  jugglers  were  sparrers  entering  the  lists, 
Harlequins,  puppets,  and  ventriloquists  ; 
Irish  pipers  a-playing,  trained  dogs,  dancing  bears, 
And  proud,  peerless  "peelers"  parading  the  fairs. 

Dear  homes  where  the  patient  toilers  be, 
Where  is  heard  the  ceaseless  voice  of  the  sea ; 
Your  fields  are  stony,  minds  oft  distressed. 
But  with  love  in  the  heart  there  is  peace  and  rest ; 
Your  sons  and  daughters  new  lives  have  planned 
Away  in  a  kind  and  generous  land ;  — 
Yet  ofttimes  they  long  for  the  mountain  air, 
Old  joys,  and  a  day  at  the  Creeslough  Fair. 


[  82  ] 


[  84  ] 


THE   SAND    EEL   STRAND 

The  tide  is  low  in  Sheep  Haven  Bay, 
And  the  harvest  moon  high  stands, 

As  a  joyful  company  hastens  away 
To  cross  to  the  sand  eel  strands. 

They  pass  o'er  the  gullet  in  curragh  and  yawl  — 

The  tide  is  nearing  its  flow ; 
Into  creel  and  basket  the  shining  fish  fall, 

And  the  bar  is  roaring  below ! 

The  raven  croaks  on  the  garden  wall ; 

There's  a  rush  of  the  inflowing  tide  ; 
The  boats  are  all  gone,  unheard  is  the  call, 

And  the  channel  grows  deep  and  wide. 

Lustily  back  the  oarsmen  pull  — 

Hope  shouts  from  the  shadowy  land. 

Too  late  !    for  only  the  cry  of  the  gull 
Is  heard  o'er  the  sand  eel  strand. 

Hopeless  of  aid  from  the  distant  shore, 

They  plunge  in  the  waters  deep ; 
The  moan  of  the  surf  and  the  bar's  deep  roar 

Are  their  dirge  as  they  fall  asleep. 

When  the  sun  next  shines  on  meadow  and  corn, 
And  the  weepers  kneel  down  to  pray — 

Across  the  wrack  the  dead  are  borne 
To  the  shore  of  Sheep  Haven  Bay. 


[  85  ] 


FAME 

**  I  have  written  my  name  on  water." 

There's  a  murky  pool  hid  from  the  strand 

By  banks  where  the  daisies  grow ; 
But  near  it  the  currachs  never  land, 

Nor  by  it  the  fishermen  go ;  — 
For  there  in  a  time  that  is  far  away, 

A  suicide's  body  was  found, 
And  all  who  pass  it  whispering  say, 

"  In  that  water  a  man  was  drowned." 

The  heather  blooms  on  the  hills  about ; 

Beyond  are  the  hazel  woods ; 
The  tide  comes  in  and  the  tide  goes  out 

And  makes  glad  the  solitudes. 
Within  there  are  rocks  and  marshy  grass 

That  border  the  water  around  ; 
But  a  shudder  is  felt  by  all  who  pass — 

For  there  a  man  was  drowned. 

In  it  forlorn  and  shrunken  shrimps 

Move  languidly  to  and  fro ; 
They  look  like  a  troop  of  imprisoned  imps 

In  the  bog-stained  water  below  ;  — 
The  children  passing  along  to  school, 

Start  up  with  a  sudden  bound, 
As  they  turn  and  see  the  accursed  pool. 

In  which  a  man  was  drowned. 


[  86  ] 


Was  it  the  act  of  a  frenzied  brain 

Grown  weary  of  life's  stern  task  ? 
No  answer  comes  to  the  query  again, 

And  in  vain  the  questioners  ask  ; 
Others  kept  a  faith  that  brightened  the  hearth, 

And  were  strong  though  fortune  frowned  — 
Their  names  are  forgotten  on  the  earth. 

While  lives  his  name  who  was  drowned. 

His  story  is  known  to  all  who  live  near, 

For  his  act  recorded  his  name ; 
He  sought  for  death  in  madness  and  fear. 

And  his  life  was  ended  in  shame ;  — 
Forgotten  his  friends  by  hillside  and  shore, 

They  have  speedy  oblivion  found ; 
While  his  name  is  recorded  forevermore. 

On  the  water  where  he  was  drowned. 


[  87  ] 


[  88  ] 


i 

'f 

[  90  ] 


THE   WRECK    OF   THE    FRIGATE   SALDANA 

In  Ballymastocker  Bay,  Lough  Swilly,  December  4,  1811. 

Tempest  tossed  and  ever  thwarted ; 

Sails  torn  asunder,  cordage  parted ; 

Great  guns  broken  from  their  lashings ; 

Split  spars  falling,  constant  crashings ; 

Terror  stalking,  bells  a-tolling; 

North  and  west  great  billows  rolling ;  — 

All  around  a  whirl  of  waters 

Bow  and  deck  and  broadside  batters ; 

From  Malin  Head  to  treacherous  Torry, 

Leeward  rocks  and  prospects  sorry ; 

Packenham  from  these  scenes  terrific. 

Vainly  sought  a  port  pacific ; 

In  the  wild  tempestuous  weather 

Down  went  ship  and  crew  together — 

On  the  sharp  rocks,  sunken,  battered. 

Three  hundred  seamen  drowned  and  scattered. 

When  the  wind  and  tide  had  shifted, 

Only  the  captain  shoreward  drifted ;  — 

He  of  all  the  men  ill-fated. 

Found  a  graveyard  consecrated : 

Near  cornfields,  meads,  and  prospects  hilly ; 

By  the  passing  tides  of  the  shadowy  Swilly, 

In  fair  Rathmullen  beyond  Buncrana, 

Rests  Packenham  of  the  Saldana. 


[  91  ] 


ROBERT    BERMINGHAM    CLEMENTS 

Fourth  Earl  of  Leitrim. 

By  his  people  beloved,  as  all  records  show, 

He  lightened  their  burdens,  he  lessened  their  woe ; 

His  fame  resounds  beyond  Fanad  and  Doe. 

He  passed  through  the  land  guarded  from  peril — 
For  man  and  woman  and  boy  and  girl 
Honored  and  loved  the  generous  earl. 

He  brought  traffic  and  gain  to  the  farmer's  door ; 
He  brightened  the  lot  of  the  suffering  poor ; 
His  name  will  last  while  the  hills  endure. 

The  works  he  wrought  and  the  deeds  by  him  done 
Will  be  prized  while  the  tides  of  Mulroy  run. 
Or  great  Sheep  Haven  Bay  reflects  the  sun. 

Too  soon  removed  in  his  manhood's  pride. 
There  was  sorrow  o'er  all  the  country  side. 
And  a  solemn  lament  when  the  kind  earl  died. 

As  they  bore  him  away  to  his  burial  place, 
The  sadness  that  spake  on  each  mourner's  face 
Showed  love  can  bring  union  of  faith  and  race. 

When  wayfarers  tarry  at  Carrigart 

By  his  cross — a  prayer,  or  a  tear  will  start 

For  the  earl  who  had  a  true  Irish  heart. 


[  92  ] 


Photo  by  John  Henderson,  Esq. 


I  94  ] 


A  BOY'S  FISHING 

It  was  lonesome  to  be  fishing  out  on  the  Benagormes, 

And  with  no  fish  a-biting  there  to  stay — 
Watching  the  changing  clouds  take  on  such  dreadful  forms 

On  the  ever-restless  surface  of  the  bay. 

And  see  the  fish  a-flashing  in  the  clear  sea  below — 
Yellow,  red  and  blue,  but  never  a  hook  took  they ; 

While  a  seal  sat  before  him,  a-coming  with  the  flow — 
Her  looks  so  like  a  woman's,  he  wished  she'd  swim  away. 

The  Seeans  were  not  feeding,  there  were  signs  of  coming 
storms. 

The  hunger-pain  within  him,  and  the  evening  growing  gray. 
And  it  being  a  wild  and  lonesome  spot  out  by  the  Benagormes, 

He  thought  it  wise  to  hurry  off",  and  fish  some  other  day. 


LITTLE  NORA 

Written  for  Mrs.  G.  B.  M. 

I  would  like  to  go  to  the  bullberry  brae. 
Where  the  biggest  bullberries  be ; 

But  I  fear  there  is  danger  on  the  way, 
And  harm  might  come  to  me. 

I'll  take  three  drinks  from  the  holy  spring 

And  then  I  can  wander  free ; 
May  dance  and  sing  in  the  fairy  ring 

And  around  the  wild  rowan  tree. 

I  will  string  with  berries  cushags  ten, 
And  if  sheegies  I  happen  to  see — 

One  I  will  give  to  the  Little  Men 
And  they  will  be  good  to  me. 

[  95  ] 


SHAN 

Where  a  cabin  once  was  found, 

Long  since  razed  to  the  ground, — 

Lived  with  Giley  brave  old  Shan, 

Who  was  a  fine  old  Irishman, — 

Was  a  kindly  friend  and  neighbor, 

Patient,  faithful  at  his  labor  ;  — 

Plowed  and  planted,  sowed  the  seed, 

Tilled  his  garden  free  of  weed ; 

Led  the  swaying  scythe-men  on. 

As  mowers  moved  in  echelon ; 

And  often  when  his  toil  was  o'er 

In  summer,  by  his  cabin  door. 

While  tarried  the  soft  evening  light, 

Or  by  the  blaze  on  winter's  night, 

Like  some  old  bard  of  ancient  fame. 

Would  through  the  smoke  in  Erse  declaim 

A  legend,  ballad,  stirring  story. 

Of  Irish  deeds  and  old-time  glory. 

Then  turning  to  the  hearers  nigh. 

As  one  awaked,  in  English  cry, 

"  Ireland's  deliverance  is  nigh." 

I  see  him  now  with  outstretched  hand. 

While  wondering  neighbors  listening  stand. 


(31? 


px5 


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[  96  ] 


[  98  ] 


TO    HON.  WILLIAM    PRYOR    LETCHWORTH,  LL.D. 

— The  well-known    Philanthropist  and    Author — On    presenting   him  with  a    pot  of 
heather,  by  M.  J.  and  J.  N.  J.,  on  April  seventeenth,  1907, 

Dim  the  year  and  far  away, 
When  you  rode  that  matchless  day 

In  the  summer  weather  — 
Saw  the  shadows  flit  and  play 
Far  o'er  wide  Sheep  Haven  Bay, 

And  sunshine  on  the  heather. 

*  Your  mercy-mission  we  recall, 
And  journey  through  lone  Donegal, 

Past  Cashel — upper,  nether  ; 
A  whispering  air,  a  sense  of  awe, 
A  mystery  in  all  you  saw. 

And  fairies  in  the  heather. 

Three  mountain  summits  to  the  west. 
An  ocean  north  of  drear  unrest ; 

Here  fancy  feels  no  tether  — 
It  speeds  beyond  to  realms  unseen, 
Passing  o'er  fields  of  emerald  green, 

And  tracts  of  blooming  heather. 

The  hazy  hills,  the  moorland  streams 
Appeared  as  in  a  land  of  dreams  ; 

And  birds  of  varied  feather  ; 
Legends  came  back,  old  Celtic  lays, 
Myths,  mighty  deeds  of  bygone  days. 

And  sunshine  on  the  heather ! 

*  Note. —  Mr.  Letchworth  in  1880  was  in  Ireland  making  an  official  inspection  of 
institutions. 


[  99  ] 


The  fleeting  seasons  will  not  stay ; 
Life  grows  wearisome  and  gray ; 

Great  hearts  have  worked  together - 
The  glory  of  their  speech  and  pen 
Has  brightened  lives  of  suffering  men 

As  sunshine  lights  the  heather. 


[  100  ] 


From  a  painting  by  George  Winter  Roberta,  Alden,  N.  Y. 


[   102  ] 


THE    CAOINE* 

The  fishing  smacks  at  Downing's  lay, 
The  sea  and  the  air  were  still ; 

Sunshine  and  joy  and  the  warmth  of  May 
By  the  side  of  Granua's  Hill. 

The  lark  sang  near  the  cornfield's  edge. 
The  finch  on  the  hawthorn's  crest ; 

Wild  flowers  were  blooming  by  the  hedge, 
And  an  Irish  sky  at  rest. 

Calm  and  peace  o'er  wood  and  lea. 

Save  a  distant  cuckoo's  call ; 
O,  years  of  bliss  !    it  was  good  to  be, 

Such  a  morning  in  Donegal  — 

To  feel  the  pulse  of  life  beat  high, 

And  breathe  earth's  fragrant  breath ;  — 

With  love  and  youth  and  hope  so  nigh, 
Afar  were  sorrow  and  death. 

From  the  vale  below,  by  mound  and  cross, 

Arose  a  funeral  wail — 
The  piercing  cry  of  love  and  loss 

From  the  stricken  heart  of  the  Gael. 

Then  all  the  sunshine  and  beauty  fled. 
And  left  were  the  anguish  and  thrill 

That  came  with  that  wailing  for  the  dead. 
As  it  passed  o'er  Granua's  Hill. 

♦  The  Keen,  now  rarely  heard,  is  passing  away. 


[  103  ] 


THOUGHTS  ON  HEARING  OF  THE  DEATH 
OF  THE  LAST  STEWART  OF  ARDS 

O,  Cashelmore  !    O,  Cashelmore  ! 

Old  home  so  far  away  ! 
To-night  I  hear  the  bar's  deep  roar 

In  weird  Sheep  Haven  Bay ! 
Here,  where  Niagara's  waters  flow, 

Near  Erie's  ice-fringed  shore — 
While  ring  the  bells  of  Buffalo, 

I  think  of  Cashelmore. 

Its  early  flowers  I  eager  sought 

And  heather-purpled  hill — 
They're  pictured  ever  in  my  thought — 

Its  birds  are  singing  still  ! 
Dear  sharers  of  my  boyish  hopes, — 

The  living  now  are  few  — 
Upon  the  breezy  upland  slopes 

Joyous  I  walked  with  you. 

I've  watched  the  high  tide  ebb  and  flow 

Past  rampart  banks  of  green  ; 
The  fields  from  Cloon  to  Castle  Doe 

And  rampart  lands  between. 
Through  woods  of  Ards  when  skies  were  bright 

I've  passed  from  strand  to  strand, 
Found  at  each  turn  a  new  delight — 

'Twas  an  enchanted  land. 


[   104  ] 


[  105  ] 


HERE,   WHERE   NIAGARA'S   WATERS  FLOW 


[   107  ] 


The  peasant  long  since  left  his  cot ; 

The  tiller,  forced  to  roam, 
In  many  climes  a  future  sought 

Denied  to  him  at  home. 
Gone,  too,  the  great  historic  race. 

Its  work  of  beauty  done  ; 
Its  fair  demesne  a  lonely  place, 

O'er  which  the  conies  run. 

And  Nature  keeps  a  changeless  face, 

Whate'er  the  human  lot ; 
Men  come  and  go,  they  leave  no  trace, 

And  yet  she  heedeth  not ; 
The  western  line  still  Muckish  guards. 

Seas  break  on  grim  Horn  Head ; 
Silence  and  change  have  come  to  Ards, 

And  its  last  Stewart  dead ! 


Buffalo,  New  York,  U.  8.  A. 
February  2.  1905. 


^ 


N, 


./ 


Y  (V  i/]  \ 


l^>-> 


vV 


V 


[  109  ] 


THE    BRIDGE   OF   CLOON 

I 

A  boy  in  the  splendor  of  June 
Stood  on  the  Bridge  of  Cloon ; 

He  watched  the  trout  in  the  pool, 
The  children  passing  to  school ; 

The  patient  husbandmen  go 
With  grist  to  the  mill  below  ; 

Returning,  by  horse  or  with  wheel, 
Each  bringing  his  burden  of  meal. 

The  river  swept  downward  in  glee, 
To  meet  the  incoming  sea ; 

Beyond,  rose  the  woods  and  green  swards 
And  the  opulent  beauty  of  Ards ; 

The  thrilling  song  of  a  thrush 
Came  from  a  neighboring  bush ; 

Meadow  and  tree  and  flower 
Rejoiced  in  that  sun-lit  hour ; 

Earth  and  heaven  brought  joy 
To  the  sensitive  heart  of  the  boy, 

As  he  stood,  in  that  far-off  June, 
And  dreamed  on  the  Bridge  of  Cloon. 

H 

By  the  light  of  a  winter  moon 
He  stands  on  the  Bridge  of  Cloon ; 


[  110  ] 


[  111  ] 


Years  of  absence  and  change 
To  him  make  all  things  strange ; 

Can  this  be  the  river  he  knew, 
The  mill  and  the  old-time  view  ? 

No  more  the  great  wheel  groans, 
No  sound  of  the  circling  stones  ; 

Mill  roofless  —  all  ruin  and  rust. 
The  faithful  miller  now  dust 

In  the  chapel  yard  with  the  dead, 
And  a  faded  cross  at  his  head ! 

Patrons  at  rest — father  and  son, 
Sowing,  reaping,  and  grinding  done, 

And  of  all  the  numberless  host 
Not  even  a  flitting  ghost ! 

While  out  from  the  spectral  sky 
Comes  a  wild  bird's  desolate  cry. 

Dark  shadows  on  mountain  and  lea 
And  the  wail  of  a  distant  sea — 

And  under  the  pitiless  moon 

He,  alone,  on  the  Bridge  of  Cloon ! 


[  113  ] 


THE   WOODS   OF    ARDS 

Neighbors  and  friends  on  the  soft,  green  heather, 

By  the  ruins  of  Cashel  sitting  together ;  — 

Singing  old  songs,  telling  old  stories ; 

Watching  by  Muckish  the  sunset  glories ; 

The  bay  and  the  restless  sea  in  the  distance, 
And  the  woods  of  Ards  with  a  fond  insistence 
Reaching  them  there  with  a  loving  persistence. 

By  rivers,  lakes,  and  western  prairies. 

Far  from  Irish  hills  and  haunts  of  the  fairies ; 

Oft  lonely  and  sad  as  darkness  was  falling ; 

The  ruins  of  Cashel  and  friends  recalling ;  — 

Then  the  fair  woods  of  Ards  made  glad  my  existence. 
They  followed  me  still  with  their  loving  persistence, 
And  brought  me  old  joys  when  alone  in  the  distance. 


[  114  ] 


[  "5  ] 


^  J » .  i  j 


[  117  ] 


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